


How Soon is Now?

by marginaliana



Series: Abandoned Top Gear Snippets [2]
Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've no intention of meddling!" Stephen says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Soon is Now?

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a gift fic for Bellap74 and has been through a couple of iterations, but I fell out of like for Stephen Fry so I think it's doomed to be unfinished.

Stephen finds that he's ended up as James' friend without really any conscious attempt to become so. He remembers that they'd met at one of Jeremy's parties, two of forty odd people milling around in Jeremy's London flat with a lot of alcohol. And when Stephen thinks 'forty odd people' what he means is 'forty _odd_ people,' because Jeremy is something of a gourmand when it comes to his friends. He's not interested in people just because they're rich or famous; he only ever invites people he considers interesting – smart or funny or unusual in some way, or some combination of all of those qualities – and he's notoriously stingy with his invitations. No one gets invited because Jeremy feels he has to or because he's being polite, and Stephen never fails to feel absurdly pleased whenever he gets an invitation in the mail.

The way he remembers it he'd been at the party, listening in on a conversational huddle about up-and-coming technology, when Jeremy pulled him away to introduce them. Stephen remembers that James had been smiling nervously, and that Jeremy had said something about both of them being "two people who know far too much about everything," and then someone had called Jeremy's name from across the room and he'd abandoned them both to go and settle a discussion.

"First time anyone's ever needed Jezza to _stop_ an argument," James had said wryly. Stephen had laughed, and told an anecdote about Jeremy and Alan that had forced an intemperate bark of laughter from James, and they'd spent a good portion of the evening chatting pleasantly.

Somehow after that they'd kept running into each other, and eventually exchanged numbers, and had a drink together every now and then. James had cheered Stephen up during a particularly awful week by sending him an email detailing some footage that absolutely would not make it onto Top Gear (since every third word would have to be bleeped), and by the time Stephen really thinks about it, they're properly friends.

Still, it's a surprise when his phone rings at nearly midnight and he sees James' name on the display. He'd just been getting ready to turn in, but he decides that if James is calling this late it must be important, so a moment later he thumbs the button to answer, lifting the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Stephen," James says, and Stephen can already tell he's drunk just by the way those two words slide out of his mouth.

"Well lubricated, I see," Stephen says, but instead of the expected chuckle he gets a rough, bitter laugh. He frowns.

"James, are you all right?"

"Fine," James says. "I'm always fine." There's a pause, in which Stephen really has no idea what to say. Then James says, "C'n I ask you something personal?"

Confused, Stephen braces himself. "Certainly."

"Were you in love with Hugh?"

He doesn't know what he'd been expecting, but that isn't it. It's more personal than he'd have thought he'd get from James. On the other hand it's not so personal that he isn't going to answer, and anyway it isn't exactly the best kept secret in the world.

"Yes, I was." Stephen thinks, _This might take some time,_ and he settles onto the sofa, pulling his legs up and resting his arm across the back cushions.

"How did you…" He can hear the sound of James swallowing. "How did you survive it?"

Things suddenly begin to fall into place in Stephen's mind. _Oh, my dear boy._ He opens his mouth to ask which one of them it is, but all his instincts tell him there isn't any real question.

"Is it Jeremy?" he asks.

There's a long pause. James' whispered "yes" is almost inaudible.

Stephen sighs. _Idiot._ But it's a fond thought; how could he not sympathize? He says, "I reveled in it. I told myself that having a tragic, doomed, star-crossed love made me romantic and beautiful. I said that I would always prefer true pain to false happiness, and that any step I took away from that aching truth would be betrayal." He pauses. "I was a bit of a pillock, I must admit."

James snorts. Stephen says gently, "It gets better."

"Thank you," says James, and now he sounds both drunk and choked up.

There's another pause. "Would you like to tell me about it?" Stephen asks. He's not really used to being the confidant in this sort of situation, but he can do no less than his best for a friend, and perhaps it doesn't really matter what he says, so long as he's there.

James says, "If you promise you won't think 'm being wet," but Stephen can tell it's just residual resistance now, can tell that James _wants_ to be asked.

"Tell me," he says, and James does.

It's not a complicated story; two men meet, make each other laugh, form a partnership, work and play together until it's difficult to tell where person and persona begin and end. James loves Jeremy – impossible, improbable Jeremy – and doesn't mind it much, except when Jeremy smiles at him like he had today, and he feels a rare surge of that desperate, horrible hope only to have it crushed a moment later when Jeremy turns away.

"I'm a cock," James says, still slurring. "Should've grown out of being Jane Eyre a long time ago."

Stephen snorts at the comparison, but then he says, "Some things we never grow out of. Some things we shouldn't ever grow out of." 

"Stop being so fucking wise and commiserate with me," James says, and Stephen laughs before he can stop himself.

"Sorry," he says, but now James is laughing, too, a helpless little giggle that shows just how drunk and tired he must be.

When the laughter dies down they sit in silence for a moment, and then James says, "Thanks," and it comes out more easily than anything else he's said so far. Stephen relaxes a bit.

"You'll be all right," he says.

"Yeah," says James. "I know I will. It just… it helped to tell someone. So thanks."

"Of course," Stephen says. 

James sighs heavily. "I should be sensible and go to bed," he says, now speaking slowly and enunciating in an exaggerated manner. "Meetings tomorrow."

"Eurgh, meetings," says Stephen, getting another laugh. Then he says, "Call me any time. I mean that." It's a surprise to find that he does. But he _likes_ James, in a warm, uncomplicated way that seems to have snuck up on him. He doesn't want to see the man suffer if there's anything he can do about it.

"I will. Night, Stephen. Thanks again."

"Night, James."

Stephen stares at the phone for a long time after he hangs up.

\-----

The next morning Stephen has an email from James that says, "Sorry for being a pillock. I have the hangover I deserve. Drinks next week sometime so I can make it up to you?"

Stephen sends back, "No making-up necessary. I'm in LA next week but when I get back let's schedule something."

As it happens things get hectic and they don't manage to get back in touch, and the next time he sees James is at a horribly boring BBC party several weeks later. It's one of those occasions where Stephen has somehow deluded himself into thinking it will be fun right up until the moment he gets there, and then he remembers all over again that he hates this sort of thing. 

When he clears the mass of people between him and blessed, blessed alcohol, he's delighted to see the back of Jeremy's characteristic head, and a moment later he leans against the bar, nudging Jeremy with his shoulder.

"Come here often?" he jokes. Jeremy turns.

"Fry, you sneaky bastard," he says, grinning. "How are you?" They shake hands, and then Stephen orders a drink while Jeremy picks up his whisky. Stephen's drink only takes another moment and then the two of them move off into a corner of the room. Stephen settles his back against the wall, sighing. 

"I shouldn't have thought you'd be caught dead at one of these things," he says.

Jeremy snorts. "I wouldn't be, but I was blackmailed. The words ‘never produce any of your fucking shows ever fucking again' may have been used."

This segues into a joint bitching session about the horrors of making nice that lasts a good ten minutes, and which leaves Stephen feeling pleasantly understood. They fall into companionable silence as Stephen finishes his drink, and he lets his gaze wander over the assembled crowd.

A moment later there's an odd noise from beside him. Stephen looks over and realizes that it's Jeremy grinding his teeth, his face drawn tight in irritation. Stephen follows the line of his gaze, and discovers James on the other side of the room, with Oz Clarke's hand on his shoulder. _Hmm,_ Stephen thinks. _Interesting._

"You're not Mr. Clarke's biggest fan, then," he says, and Jeremy turns to give him a sour look.

"You could say that."

"Any reason in particular?" Stephen probes.

"He's a twat," Jeremy says, shrugging. "He oozes pure, distilled twattery. If there were a market for it he'd be the richest man in Britain." He pauses to consider that. "Well, except for Piers Morgan."

Stephen snorts. "Is that all? Don't hold back, Jeremy, dear, it isn't healthy."

Jeremy laughs, but when he looks back across the room it turns into a grumble. Stephen looks over again, sees Oz handing James a glass of wine, James lifting it up to investigate its aroma.

"He's turning James into a ponce," Jeremy says after a moment. "Used to be he'd just come round and we'd get utterly rat-arsed on whatever was handy. But now he's gone picky. He's always bringing over some ridiculous French something or other, and then I end up worrying that it won't go with curry. How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"It's very simple, actually," Stephen says. "I've found that sweet, aromatic white wines tend to go quite well with curry, though it's best if they're quite cold. As for reds—" 

Jeremy clears his throat, and Stephen stops mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised.

"It's wine, Stephen," Jeremy says, slowly and with careful enunciation as if he's speaking to a small child. "It tastes like grapes. You drink it, and it gets you drunk."

Stephen pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, of course," he says dryly. "My apologies."

Jeremy grins at him. "Good," he says. "Don't think I could take both of you going on like that."

"Says the car bore," Stephen shoots back. " _How_ long did you spend telling Alan about your Lamborghini at the last QI party?"

"He _asked_!" Jeremy says instantly, and then when Stephen mimics his earlier throat clearing Jeremy purses his lips and begins to laugh. "All right," he says. "All right, point taken."

There's a pause as they just grin at each other, but Stephen can't help noticing with interest the way, whenever Jeremy stops talking, his eyes go to the same spot in the room.

"Something fascinating?" Stephen asks.

"Hmm?" Jeremy says. "Oh, just thinking that James looks like he's about to strangle himself to death. Guess that means he's not becoming a wine-ist just yet."

Stephen turns again. James definitely looks annoyed, but also a bit anxious, and a moment later Stephen sees those blue eyes flicker in their direction.

"I think that's the ‘come save me' signal," Jeremy says. "I'm going to go drive Clarke off." He's moving before he even finishes the sentence.

_Oh, lordy lordington,_ Stephen thinks. He moves to follow, but before he can take more than a few steps someone puts their hand on his shoulder, and he's diverted into another conversation, this time one that involves a considerable amount of smiling and nodding and trying not to correct some idiot's thoughts on the future of the iPad.

When he finally gets free ten minutes later he looks around, trying to gauge whether Jeremy has managed to create an international incident and/or set Oz Clarke on fire. Luckily there's no evidence of either, though he can't spot Jeremy among the crowd, so there's always a chance the mayhem is happening out of sight.

He gets diverted again, this time pleasantly, to speak briefly with David Mitchell, who also looks like he's ready to chuck himself through a window in order to escape.

"Is there _anyone_ who enjoys this sort of thing?" David asks under his breath, giving a strained grin to someone walking past.

"Sadists and whores," Stephen says cheerfully, getting a laugh. He pats David on the shoulder and moves on.

Eventually he finds James off to one side of the room, talking about BMW to a man Stephen thinks he ought to know but can't quite place. Only a few minutes after Stephen's arrival the other man excuses himself. Once he's out of earshot James lets out a breath.

"Was it completely obvious that I wanted out of that conversation?" he asks quietly. Stephen laughs. 

"I don't think so. You looked far more harassed when I saw you earlier," he says. 

James's face goes pink. "Sorry. I saw you two talking, and I thought for a second you might have been telling him— Sorry. I know you wouldn't have."

Stephen is surprised, not because he'd forgotten about their late-night conversation, but because he hadn't realized that earlier flicker of gaze was related to James' half-stifled expression of anxiety. The thought stings. "If I were to break the confidence I'd hardly do it here," he says dryly.

James' flush goes even darker. "I _am_ sorry, Stephen. Bloody hell, I always make such a mess of things."

Stephen's hurt fades as quickly as it had appeared. _Poor boy. He's all a-fluster. And who can blame him? It's a small bloody world, this place._ "No need to apologize, my dear boy," he says. "Quite understandable. And I _will_ keep quiet, I promise you." He touches James' wrist tentatively, and he's surprised when James turns his hand around to grip Stephen's with a quick, tight squeeze.

"Thanks," James says. "Just… thanks."

Before Stephen can say anything else the expression on James' face goes from serious to blank, and then from behind him Jeremy's voice says, "What's got you two hiding in the corner, then?"

Stephen turns, putting on a smile that he hopes doesn't look as fake as it feels. Jeremy's eyes are flicking back and forth between them, and there's something watchful about his expression, as if he's sensed that they've been talking about him.

"I was just asking James about your trip to Majorca," Stephen says. "Mainly in the hopes that he'd have another story like the one about you and the termites."

Jeremy flushes. "It was a perfectly reasonable mistake to make!" he says. James begins to snicker, and then a moment later Jeremy joins in, seemingly as willing to laugh at himself as ever. The tense moment passes, and yet even as Stephen watches them both with paternal amusement, he can't help thinking there's something going on beneath the surface.

\-----

The idea sticks in the back of Stephen's mind all night, through several more drinks and a long trail of conversations with people of varying degrees of interestingness. When he finally gets home to his (empty) flat, he drops his keys on the table inside the door and toes off his shoes, feeling unutterably weary.

Still, instead of falling into bed, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and settles into his favorite chair, tapping Hugh's number on the speed dial.

"Hullo there," says that familiar voice. Stephen almost immediately feels himself relax.

"Hullo, m'dear," he says. "How are you?"

"Bloody tired," Hugh says. "How was your snooty BBC party? That was what you were going to tonight, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Stephen says, sighing. "It was wretched. I loathe myself for going."

"Oh, now," says Hugh, and Stephen smiles. He loves that even when he's being patently ridiculous, Hugh won't let him put himself down.

"I'm fine really," he says. "No more self-loathing than usual, I promise. It was just packed to the very brim, mostly beautiful young things who looked thrilled to bits to be there and a few cynical old gits like me. The only interesting conversations I had all night were about how miserable the whole endeavor of self-publicity has become." He purses his lips. "Although... I was talking to Jeremy Clarkson..."

"And he managed to find forty seven different ways of using the word 'cunt' in a ten minute period?" Hugh suggests. Stephen snorts.

"Quite possibly," he says. "But what was more interesting was that while we carried on a conversation, he was completely preoccupied with watching James May on the other side of the room. Every time there was a pause his eyes slid over. If I didn't know better..." Stephen trails off, finding the end of the sentence almost too bizarre to voice.

"Hmm?"

"If I didn't know better, I should have said he had quite a sweet little crush."

Hugh bursts into laughter. "Really?"

"I know it sounds incredible, but if you'd seen him, m'dear... And then I went over to talk to James, and Jezza cut in so sharply it was almost as if he were jealous."

"Maybe he was," Hugh says, having managed to stop laughing but still sounding amused. "He's always struck me as the type that doth protest too much."

It's a ridiculous idea, but somehow once Stephen turns it over in his head a few times the whole thing takes on a distinctly plausible tinge. "Do you really think so?"

"Oh, yes," Hugh says. "It's all 'tits, tits, tits' with him, and I just think, 'Come _on_.'"

"Hmm," Stephen says. 

"Oh, no," says Hugh. "That's your meddling noise."

"I've no intention of meddling!" Stephen says. "It's only that, well, James is quite mad for him. And if Jeremy really isn't so entirely straight... Perhaps he just needs a nudge in the right direction, that's all."

"Define 'meddling' for me, would you?"

Stephen frowns. "Oh, all right," he says peevishly. "I'm a meddlesome old bastard."

"You're a lovely, warm-hearted, meddlesome old bastard," Hugh says, "and those two idiots are lucky to have you."

"And _you're_ a saint for putting up with me," Stephen says, sighing, and then he turns the conversation to other things and forgets about James and Jeremy, for a while.

\-----

[Stephen gets the inspiration to investigate Jeremy's feelings and prod him]

[Stephen sending Jeremy emails about James' moon program?]

\-----

"Every man should have some burning, passionate whatnot," Stephen says. "Makes us solid. Makes us real."

\-----

Jeremy is a far better man than anyone gives him credit for, Stephen thinks.

\-----

[They go to a party, and Stephen monopolizes James' attention in a flirty way in the attempt to make Jeremy jealous.]

_Come on, alpha dog,_ Stephen thinks. _Stake your claim._ But then Jeremy's face twists into a grimace, something painful to look at, and he turns away in one quick, angry motion, stalking past someone who's trying to get his attention and out the doors to the terrace.

_Bollocks,_ Stephen thinks. He gives James' shoulder a squeeze, then says, "I have to take care of something. I'll be right back." James gives him a puzzled look, but doesn't protest as Stephen abandons him.

[he follows Jeremy out onto the terrace]

"What do you expect me to do?" Jeremy growls. "Challenge you to a sodding duel?"

"Well I'm sure I don't know," Stephen says, his irritation boiling over, "but I didn't expect _Jeremy fucking Clarkson_ to just roll over and give up."

"Do you want a fight, then?" Jeremy says, stepping right into Stephen's personal space, his face flushed. "Is that what this is about? Because if you want a go, then you don't have to bring him into it. He doesn't deserve to be used like that, and if you're leading him on, Stephen, I swear to god—"

"You are the thickest man I have ever met," Stephen says, because he's at his wit's end here, doesn't know what to say to make himself understood, especially not now that Jeremy is wound so tightly.

"Well, maybe I am," Jeremy says viciously, "but at least I wouldn't play sick games with a good man like James. At least I'd love him the way he deserves to be loved. At least I'd—"

"Jeremy?" James' voice rings out across the terrace, and both of them whip around, Jeremy's face gone white. James melts out of the shadows, his eyes wide, and takes a hesitant step forwards across the slate tiles. "You'd… Jezza… you'd—"

"Oh, _shit_ , James," Jeremy says. "I— I didn't mean— I'm sure that he—"

"You fool," James says, shaking his head slowly. "You sweet fool, Jeremy. _You're_ the one I want." Jeremy's mouth falls open. James takes another step forward. "Always have been."

"But you—" Jeremy stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You keep going off with him, and—" Stephen holds his breath, but neither of them so much as flicker a glance in his direction, both too caught up on whatever emotions they can find on each other's faces. "—having little private conferences, and…"

James' mouth twists into a wry not-quite smile. "Just pouring out all my tragic, unrequited thingies, that's all."

\-----

[more here]

\-----

Stephen takes a quiet step back, and then another, trying not to draw their attention, trying to close his eyes to the sight of fingers stroking softly over a stubbled cheek, his ears to the sounds of murmured endearments. 

Something inside him feels hollow. It's not that he wants either of them; he loves them both dearly, but in an utterly platonic way. But he can't help envying the obvious depth of feeling they have for each other.

[there was going to be a happy ending for Stephen here, somehow]


End file.
